


Of Bottles and Blues

by probee



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen, a bunch of dummies being dumb, and ill-advised karaoke, ill-advised alcohol consumption, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probee/pseuds/probee
Summary: Take a couple of overworked agents, lots of liquid courage, and a healthy dose of spite, and you get ill-advised public singing.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Of Bottles and Blues

**Author's Note:**

> You know that scene in the season 4 finale where the team are at the bar and having fun like the youngsters they once were? Like that, but less drug addicts trying to murder Tony. (Also, obviously, alcohol consumption warnings.)

The bar is cozy. _Too cozy_. Stuffed-like-a-sardine-can cozy.  
  
It is also conveniently located two blocks from headquarters.  
  
It’s a younger scene than they’re typically used to (now), less yuppie and more grad student and off-duty officers letting off steam. It is noisy and boisterous and alive.  
  
They’re all a little tipsy. But it is glorious, because they are together. And it’s been a long week.  
  
A long year, in fact.  
  
At long last, though, they are celebrating. Celebrating being free and reconnecting.  
  
Thoughts pass through all of their minds that they’re probably too old for this (this hits harder for some more than others), but _screw it_. They have earned some frivolity after reclaiming their lives.  
  
They also have babysitters and free time, and these are precious commodities these days.  
  
So here they find themselves on a Friday night, summoning liquid courage to loosen inhibitions and pretend that this is the secret to feeling like their old selves. As though their youth could be found in the bottom of a bottle, and not hopelessly gone for good.  
  
Tonight is not the night for regrets.  
  
(They hope.)  
  
It is almost painfully cliché. Torres waltzes up to the bar and orders a pitcher for the table, only to find that they’ve beaten him to the punch. Palmer unapologetically sips on his Mai Tai ( _“You don’t know what you’re missing, this is delicious and you’re just jealous”_ ), McGee nurses a whiskey neat ( _“It’s distinguished”_ ), and Tony opts for a martini ( _“There was a Bond marathon on TV last weekend, I was inspired”_ ).  
  
That just leaves himself and Gibbs to finish off the beer, and he immediately second-guesses his decision to come tonight. He was already under the impression that he was third- or seventh-wheeling this outing, a little too Wonderbread for his liking anyway, but when Gibbs decided to join the impromptu affair, he was decidedly taken aback. Now he faces his boss’ inscrutable stare and reflexively searches for the nearest exits, just in case. Especially when his partner is holding court at the other end of the table, hands flying as she retells their latest battle in the office, and understanding how protective the others are over her, he is further convinced that he may have made a huge mistake coming here tonight.  
  
The “girls”, meanwhile, are knocking back a couple of pitchers of sangria at ferocious pace, like college co-eds gone wild. Only between them all they are high-ranking professional women, several of whom with small children, none of whom actually go out with any frequency, so this rather tame soirée is a welcome distraction for them as well.  
  
For Ziva, it is a chance to acquaint herself with her new friends, the women who have made an impact on her chosen family in her stead. To feel like she belongs, if only for a few hours. (She tries to suppress the voices telling her she hasn’t earned this, because whether she accepts it or not, these people are hers, too.) So that is why she downs the drinks quicker than she usually would, despite the concoction being far too sweet for her liking, because she remembers the camaraderie she once shared with her co-workers, and she craves that companionship more than she realizes.  
  
Bishop, however, gives her a run for her money, having finished half a pitcher on her own already, her cheerful demeanor becoming more animated as the night wears on. The younger agent walked into the bar an hour ago flustered, muttering something about pencils and protocol and she’s pretty sure it has something to do with the man being glared at by Gibbs, and the familiarity of it all makes her chuckle.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Her mark asks, seated to her left, keenly sensing this has something to do with her.  
  
“Nothing,” Ziva replies, aware that some things these two need to figure out on their own. (Not that that did her and Tony any good, but she hopes that they may be outliers in how to act upon office attraction.)  
  
Ellie grumbles in response, before returning to her drink and her story, and Ziva catches Kasie rolling her eyes, acting like she’s heard this tale already and is fed up. (She suspects this is a common occurrence.) Breena and Delilah offer words of encouragement every few sentences as Ellie rants, but once she’s off on another tangent, they continue their chat about their kids and their jobs. Not for the first time a pang hits the newcomer deep inside, that there has been a lifetime that has flown by in her absence, one she could have and should have been a part of— weddings and babies and funerals and careers— but all she can do is play catch up now that she is back.  
  
(And she _is_ back. She repeats this like a mantra, over and over, everyday. This they will never take away from her.)  
  
“How’re you adjusting to being back in the fold?” Jack asks her, seated to her right, breaking her out of her reverie. Her stare is most definitely scrutinizing, and while she appreciates the psychologist’s concern, she also cannot help but feel like she is under a microscope. (The way she always has anytime she’s had to deal with _professionals_. Like after Ari. Or Somalia. Or Dr. Cranston. Cursory meetings to prove all parts are in visible working order. Never mind the invisible scars that never heal.)  
  
“Um, fine, I guess. It is… an adjustment. For all of us.” She chooses her words carefully, but when it comes down to it, it’s the truth. She and her partner and daughter jump from overjoyed to overstressed every day, but she refuses to consider any other alternative. Not after all the time.  
  
Jack offers a curiously sympathetic smile, devoid of the usual judgment she’s faced from other shrinks, and she finds this comforting. Besides, she’s noticed the way she and Gibbs steal glances at one another, and something tells her this woman is going to be a force to be reckoned with in all of their lives.  
  
“If you ever need to talk to anyone, I can get you in touch with a counselor. And my door’s always open, too.”  
  
Ziva smiles politely, but wants to nip this conversation in the bud before she it actually takes a turn for the serious (because she is not ready for that confrontation yet), so she nods her thanks and raises her glass to her lips once again, taking another swig to dull the emotions bubbling inside. This is to be a night of gaiety, and that it shall remain, no matter how many pitchers of sangria she has to buy to make that happen.  
  
It is at that moment that Tony catches her her eye across the table, sensing her unease, and flashes her a shit-eating grin.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re drunk.”  
  
“A little bit, yes. And I am not sorry.”  
  
She proves this by downing what is left of her drink.  
  
“Since when do you get tipsy off two glasses of _sangria_? You used to drink me under the table. You’re getting soft, David.”  
  
She wants to say, _Since I had a baby. Since being in a crowd makes me feel like the room is caving in and suffocating me. Since I haven’t had a night out in almost seven years. Since I spent the last half-decade running from my demons, real and imagined. Since I nearly destroyed your life and mine._ But she is acutely aware that this is not the time, that this would open a dialogue neither of them are ready to have, so she rolls her eyes and grimaces at him, teasing him.  
  
Letting sleeping dogs lie.  
  
Both of the former agents notice Bishop staring daggers at Torres at the other end of the table, and the sweat dripping at his temple and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows nervously.  
  
“It’s like déjà vu all over again,” McGee remarks next to Tony, and they all smile wistfully at their lost youth and inside jokes— darkened pub booths and stolen glances and _just for tonight_ s as though it were yesterday. The couple realize they were never as subtle as they thought they were, and so the dance continues with their replacements.  
  
At some point the MC announces that Karaoke Night has started and their fellow revelers excitedly take the stage. Ellie becomes increasingly unrestrained as the din in the room intensifies, determined to overpower the petty officers belting out “Don’t Stop Believin’” like they are the first to discover the classic. Ziva is impressed with how Delilah is managing Ellie’s frustration, evidently well-versed at this, and she feels a little guilty that she isn’t making more of an effort join in, but she really is so tired. That is, until her seatmate grabs her arm with unreserved zeal, wild-eyed.  
  
“We should totally go up!”  
  
“We should totally _not_ ,” Ziva scoffs, unable to think of anything she’d like to do less right then. “The last time I sang in public I almost got blown up, I do not wish to repeat that experience anytime soon.” Ellie scrunches her nose in confusion, unsure if the alcohol is making her misunderstand, then dismisses the notion and begs whoever will listen.  
  
“We have to! It’ll be so much fun! Pleeeaaase?”  
  
Ziva shakes her head and puts her hands up to say _no way_ , as Bishop pleads her case that this is exactly what they need to do.  
  
  
  
A voice across the table cuts through the debate.  
  
“That’s one way to thin the crowd.”  
  
“Shut up Nick!”  
  
“Come on, Ellie, I’ve heard you sing. You’re completely tone deaf. And drunk.”  
  
“Rude!”  
  
“But accurate.”  
  
“Yeah, well, look who’s talking, Mr. Keg Stand!”  
  
“Are you serious right now?”  
  
“Of course I’m serious!”  
  
  
  
Ziva watches the sparring like a tennis match, acting before she has a chance to talk herself out of it, astonishing even herself.  
  
“Come on, Eleanor, we have this.”  
  
“Forget it, _mamacita_ , you guys are gonna bomb.”  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
Ziva squints her eyes at him, before breaking into a beatific smile. This is going to be fun. (She’s missed this kind of challenge. She has also had the urge to put Torres and his _I let you win_ machismo in his place for months, and this seems the perfect opportunity to kick his butt.)  
  
“If we kill this, then you are buying the whole bar a round of shots.”  
  
“And if you don’t?”  
  
“Eleanor does your case reports for a month.”  
  
“ _Hey_!”  
  
“It’s fine, Ellie.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound fair! You’re not the one who has to stick around and decipher his chicken scratch all day to try to enter it into the database,” she protests. Then in sotto voice, “Plus he’s right, I am _slightly_ tone deaf. And _slightly_ drunk.”  
  
“ _Trust me_.”  
  
The younger woman has blindly trusted her predecessor so far, through thick and thin, so she decides to throw caution to the wind and follow her lead. Besides, she really wants to smack that smirk off Nick’s face, so at least being up on stage will help her accomplish that metaphorically. Even if she has to pay for it for weeks.  
  
  
  
Ziva reaches for Ellie’s arm as they stand to make their way to the front, but she jolts them all by tapping Jack’s shoulder. “Coming?” She asks, but it’s really more of an order. (She doesn’t know what possessed her to do that, but she realizes they need backup. Any kind of backup.)  
  
“Oh, I don’t think so, this really isn’t my scene—”  
  
“Jack, we need you. You want to help? This will help.”  
  
The dark-haired beauty presses her lips together, expectant, and Jack sighs, before giving in. “What the hell,” she mutters gravelly-voiced as she stands up in defeat, and the trio make their way to the stage, amidst much hooting and hollering from the female faction of their group.  
  
Torres leans back in his chair while watching the women line up for their turn, rifling through the binder next to the amp to pick their song. Jack points quite insistently at something on the page and the three of them squabble until she puts her hand up and barks something that stops them in their tracks, and they visibly retreat. (If he could read lips as Gibbs can, he would see that their work-mom wins thusly: “ _What are we doing here?!” “Sticking it to Nick.” “… Okay, that tracks. But if you’re making me do this, we’re doing it my way._ This _song, ladies, no arguments._ ” Their team leader chuckles to himself with a glint in his eye, which makes Nick jumpier about what he’s gotten himself into.)  
  
Hands fly and rapid-fire exchanges cross between the performers as they formulate some sort of plan, until finally their names are called for their big debut and the crowd claps indifferently, already tired of the night’s drunken antics and assault on their eardrums. Nick is pretty confident, given the growing state of Ellie’s inebriety, that this is going to be a disaster — albeit a hilarious one — but the look Ziva gave him earlier sits a little uneasily in the pit of his stomach. He is unable to stop himself from smiling, though, at the way Ellie excitedly jumps around for a second to psych herself up, without a care in the world, sandwiched between the two older women in front of the microphone. The familiar bluesy bass beat drums through the speakers, and the singers sway to the music, adding their own choreography on the fly. (If nothing else, they’re eye candy to the audience, he gives them that.)  
  
“Oh, buddy, you are _so_ screwed.” Tony hardly knows the guy at all, but he is certain that he messed with the wrong bunch..  
  
“What are you talking about?” Torres asks warily, suddenly feeling like he may just have walked into a trap. Ellie starts to sing the first verse, predictably off-key but nonetheless enthusiastic, which in this room seems to make up for a lot.  
  
Tony glances back at the stage for a second, leaving Nick hanging.  
  
“Did you know Ziva’s sister was a classically-trained soprano?”  
  
“… _So_?”  
  
Jack and Ziva join in, internally debating between trying to harmonize behind Ellie, or take over completely. And they are surprisingly… not nearly as bad.  
  
“Did you know it runs in the family?”  
  
As if on cue, the one-time spy belts out the chorus at the top of her voice:  
  
_You’re no good_  
_You’re no good_  
_You’re no good_  
_Baby you’re no good_  
  
The crowd is completely into them now, and the women on stage giggle, spurred on by the joviality and giving into the moment.  
  
Nick’s jaw drops, rattled by the fact that it appears there is nothing Ziva David can’t do, which, if he could let himself admit it, hurts his pride just a smidge. (He could tell himself he let her win that fake fight last fall, but getting played like _this_? That is all on him.) He considers protesting, calling foul on their lie of omission, or how the bet was for _Ellie_ to sing herself, not the NCIS Supremes, or how when Ziva said she got blown up he thought she meant, like, that she got booed, or how it was a stupid idea anyway and an unfair wager. But several pairs of eyes cast upon him at the table, daring him to make his next move, make him think twice, and swallowing his pride, he chugs the rest of his beer. And mentally calculates that this is going to cost him half his next paycheque.  
  
Jack takes over the second verse with aplomb (and all of the team squared on Gibbs to see his reaction) and her “band” gets more into it with each passing line. As the song continues into the bridge, they break it down with air tambourines and hip shaking, surrendering to this singular moment in time. They gesture to each other, as if deciding who should take over, until it’s time for the last verse, Ziva letting loose at the crescendo, and with that, the crowd goes wild.  
  
“Oh, _shit_.”  
  
It’s game over for Torres.  
  
Gibbs whistles with his fingers, and the rest of their table cheers and claps and acts as obnoxiously as any of the college students in the bar. Their friends on stage are laughing uproariously around the microphone, arms linked around each other’s shoulders and acting as though they haven’t a care in the world. Like this is where they belong, like they haven’t suffered a lifetime of trauma. Like they are barely holding on on any given day. Pretending that Jack doesn’t keep a professional distance from the rest of them, or that Ellie can’t explain why she’s irritated with her partner ninety percent of the time, or that Ziva has never felt freer or more uninhibited in her entire life.  
  
They’re simply having fun.  
  
Lots of it.  
  
They finish the song a capella, more shouty than melodic at this point, the adrenaline coursing through their veins and binding them together in this bubble of whimsy. While not a standing ovation by any stretch (though the team obviously obliges), they get more applause than anyone else so far that evening, and it seems as though they have thoroughly won their bet, if not quite fair and square. They hug each other after they’re done, cementing a newfound friendship, forged in a different kind of combat.  
  
The trio stumble through the room back to their table, high off the thrill of their feat and still just this side of intoxicated to prevent them from feeling embarrassment yet. Tony reaches his arm around Ziva’s shoulders as she moves next to him, making a display of kissing her cheek. (God, it feels good, yet so strange to be out in the open after all these years.)  
  
“Whoa, I think we gotta change your name from Ziva to _Diva_.” She rolls her eyes back at him, secretly enamoured of his cheesiness.  
  
“Looks like you got some hidden talents there, Jack,” Gibbs pipes up, and she can feel the flush rise to her cheeks. (So can he.) They smile shyly at each other as they look at their feet for a second to avoid eye contact.  
  
“Fine, fine, Ellie, you win. You’re still tone deaf, though,” Nick finally concedes, though his voice soft this time. (Maybe he’s enchanted, too.)  
  
She examines him for a second, ascertaining whether he is being genuine or not, but she decides it doesn’t matter. She takes it at face value and beams back at him in spite of herself.  
  
“You know what this means?” He raises his eyebrows at her giddy question.  
  
“SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSHOTSHOTSHOT SHOTS EVERYBODY!” She yells it loud enough that half the room turns to locate the source of the commotion. “That’s right, this guy’s buying everyone shots!”  
  
“Ellie, come on, seriously? Calm down, okay? I got this.”  
  
She gives him a Cheshire-cat grin, fully aware of what she has just unleashed.  
  
Payback is a bitch sometimes, indeed.  
  
That is how for a few hours one Friday night, these straight-laced once and current federal agents surrender to the magic of the hour and enjoy each other’s long-sought-after company. They forget about their woes, about the battles that lie ahead, about the assured headaches in the morning.  
  
They have fun, and for tonight, that is their own victory.

**Author's Note:**

> This all started as a quick drabble idea, spurred on by Torres' cockiness at the beginning of the season. Initially it was just the "Did you know Ziva's sister was a singer?"/"Did you know it runs in the family?" line, but it turned into a 10 page bittersweet night out. I had the idea as soon as 17x02 ended, but couldn't figure out how to make it go anywhere.
> 
> Plus I was always amazed that in a show with this many singers/musicians in the cast, there were very few instances of those talents ever actually being used on-screen.
> 
> The song inspiration is thanks to CNN's endless commercials for the Linda Ronstadt documentary. (Btw totally recommend watching it if you can, super interesting.) Also, "Shots" by LMFAO, because obviously. 
> 
> Good luck to everyone watching "In the Wind" this week! Keep your fingers crossed.


End file.
